Taste of Hate
by platowasabore
Summary: When Kurt comes home with a black eye Burt is forced to face the memories of the man he used to be.


A/N- In theatricality Burt said that he used to use the word 'Fag' and i just wanted to explore that a little bit more. I hope you enjoy. It's a little more serous than the stuff i usually go for. Let me know what you think.

Disclaimer- Nope. It doesn't belong to me. If it did I certainly wouldn't be wasting my time with fanfiction. I would be busy at work writing Kurt the perfect boyfriend.

"Mothers, tell your children: be quick, you must be strong. Life is full of wonder, love is never wrong. Remember how they taught you, how much of it was fear. Refuse to hand it down - the legacy stops here." ~Melissa Etheridge, "Silent Legacy," Yes I Am, 1993

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Taste of Hate

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"Hey, kiddo. " I greeted while my seven year old son clambered up into the backseat of the car, angling his head down and hiding his face in the brim of his hot pink fedora hat. "How was school?"

"It was fine." Kurt answered quickly before turning away to look out the window, face still angled downward.

This was unusual. Usually Kurt was all energy and smiles by the time school got out, eagerly telling me all of the gossip from the day and what he had learned in class and who the teacher yelled at for eating glue or whatever.

"Oh, yeah?" I asked, while I started to carefully pull out of the school parking lot. Kids had a habit of jumping out of nowhere outside of the kindergarten. "Did you do some singing today?"

Kurt had the most beautiful singing voice I had ever heard on a child. I might believe that it may be because I was obviously prejudiced in my son's favor, but everybody else agreed. He had inherited that from his mother. He certainly didn't get it from me. I couldn't hold a tune if my very life depended on it. His high and girly voice had earned him a spot in the school choir, something he had been very excited about.

It would be a shame to loose that voice once puberty rolled around.

"A little." Kurt mumbled quietly.

Ordinarily, Kurt was just a small little bundle of energy. There was rarely a thought he had that he didn't immediately voice. If Kurt wasn't talking it probably meant he was asleep or singing. He kept the house alive with noise from sun up to sun down, filling it constantly with his high clear voice.

"What's wrong, buddy?" I asked, concerned. Kurt only got really quiet if something was wrong. " Are you feeling sick? Does your tummy hurt?"

Kurt just shook his head, knowing that I was watching him in the review mirror while I pulled up in front of the house.

Kurt jumped out of the car immediately and walked straight into the house. I never could remember to lock the door so it swung open easily when Kurt reached up for the handle.

"Slow down there, big guy." I warned, gently when Kurt rushed into the house and dropped his bag by the door, before making a bee line to the basement.

Now i knew something was wrong. Kurt treated his designer bags (which always looked more like purses to me, but what do I know about fashion?) like gold. If he was throwing it carelessly by the door, I knew something must be up.

"Kurt." I tried again before he could make it into his room. He stopped but didn't turn to face me.

"Yeah, daddy?" His voice sounded even higher than it usually did and all congested like he had been crying.

"What's wrong?" I tried again, desperately. I was a total sucker for his tears and I always had been. Those waterworks have resulted in more designer clothing than I could even remember. "If you don't tell me I can't make it better."

Kurt sighed softly before turning around to face me.

I immediately started to see red and my first instinct was to start looking around for something to punch.

Kurt's lower lip began to quiver and I immediately rushed to his side and kneeled down in front of him to inspect the unsightly bruise that had begun to form on his left cheek. It was already beginning to turn an ugly looking yellow color that he would probably later complain didn't match any of his outfits.

He flinched out of reflex when I lifted my hand to touch his cheek and the bruise there. I immediately pulled back my hand.

"What happened to you?" I tried to keep my voice as calm as possible. I just need to get a name and I will call Kurt a babysitter before I went to hunt down and kill whatever cretin had marred my beautiful baby boys face.

"It was Dave, at school." Kurt answered, biting down on his lip in an effort to stop the trembling.

OK. It was Dave. It's a damn good thing I'm not above killing an eight year old.

I lifted Kurt up into my arms and his thin arms immediately wove themselves around my neck while I walked him up the stairs and into my bathroom. He reluctantly let go when I set him down on the counter by the sink. He didn't even complain about dirtying his expensive new pants.

"How did it happen?" I asked while I let some cool water soak into a hand towel.

Kurt flinched slightly when i gently placed the towel over the bruise. The bruise was a couple hours old at least. Much too late to try and prevent swelling. Years of sports injuries had taught me that much.

"He and his friends started laughing at my clothes during recess." Kurt said, looking angry for the first time. That's so typical of him. He wasn't angry he got punched. He was just pissed they made fun of his precious clothes. "He said they were _girl _clothes and that I shouldn't be allowed to wear them."

Kurt's clothes were a bit girly but he was my son and he was allowed to wear whatever he wanted. I'll be damned if some little punk was going to give him hell over it.

"Daddy?" He asked, looking curious all of a sudden.

"Yeah, kiddo?" I asked, taking away the towel to re-wet it.

"What does 'Fagot' mean?"

I stopped wringing out the towel and looked up at his curious face.

"Did Dave call you that word?" I gritted out from in between my teeth.

Kurt nodded, looking scared. I worked to control my tone into something more soothing and less bear like.

He was only seven years old. He shouldn't even know what that word means let alone that people will most likely be calling him that for the rest of his life. All because he was just a little different. I may not be thrilled about these differences but that doesn't mean i was at all OK with some asshole calling my son, my baby boy, _that_ word.

My hands started to shake with the intense desire to hit something. I hadn't punched anybody since college, since I had Kurt. Kurt, who was so small and fragile looking that I was always afraid he would break beyond repair if I so much as touched him in the wrong way. I spent the first two months of his life terrified to hold him.

Kurt was still looking at me, expecting an answer.

"It's a very mean word." I explained, trying to appear calm. " I don't ever want to hear you saying it and if anybody says it to you I want you to tell me right away."

Kurt nodded, "OK. But what does it _mean?_"

"It's just a nasty label that mean people use for people who are different and I don't want you to worry about it." I picked him up and gave him one last hug before putting him back on the ground. "Go get out of your school clothes and I'll make you a snack."

"OK." Kurt ran off to do as I asked and i sank down onto the toilet lid and put my head in my hands.

I always knew Kurt would end up getting crap from people. He was very flamboyant and in a small town like Lima people were bound to take notice eventually. I just didn't think it would happen so soon. He was only seven, for gods sake.

It would most likely only get worse. I shudder to think of what i would have done to a boy like him in high school.

What I _had_ done to boys like him. I couldn't spend forever trying to forget the type of man I was. If I even thought you might be a fag I would have taken a couple of swings at you while my teammates cheered me on.

My head was suddenly flooded with memories of my voice and the voices of my teammates. _'Fag' 'Queer' 'God, you're such a faggot!' 'Fairy' 'Fruit' 'Shake it off, homo!'_

I groaned and shook my head to silence the memories I'd much rather forget._  
_

Up until I had Kurt I honestly and completely believed that people chose to be gay and that it was a sign of weakness. Some huge character flaw that they should be punished for.

Then I had Kurt.

He never liked sports at all. Ever. Whenever I would try to watch a game he would start wailing in his crib. Kate would come bustling out and hum show tunes to him until he calmed down.

When he was five i wanted to sign him up for peewee baseball. He wanted to take ballet classes down at the local Y.

I wanted to get him set of Tonka Trucks for his third birthday. Kurt wanted a pair of black sensible heels, like the ones his mother had.

I tried to make him watch power-rangers and he screamed till I put on sleeping beauty.

I bought him a firefighter costume for Halloween and he wanted to be a fairy (how ironic).

After Kate died I stopped. I figured if Kurt was only going to have one parent left he would need that parent to be as supportive of him as humanly possible. So I bought him the high heels he begged me for and let him paint his nails to match his outfits. I stopped pushing for baseball and let him take every dance class his heart desired.

What was the point? The whole world was going to make his life as difficult as possible for him just because he was who he was. He didn't need me to add to it. If I couldn't protect him from the rest of the world the least I could do was let him off the hook when it comes to me and his home life. If I didn't I would just end up loosing him like I lost Kate. Maybe not in the exact same way but I would loose him for sure.

"Daddy?" a small voice asked quietly form the doorway. Kurt was standing there in new clothing looking at me with a worried expression across his delicate features. "Are you OK, daddy?"

I just stared at him blankly for a second while i tried to get my thoughts back in order.

Kurt came over and hugged me. "It's OK, Daddy. It's just a bruise. Don't be sad. You and mommy always said that the owies would go away eventually."

I stood up and scooped him into my arms as I walked out of the bathroom.

"I'm fine, buddy." I assured him as his arms automatically wove around my neck in a hug. "Now, how about that snack?"

Kurt nodded eagerly and started to talk about peanut butter as we made our way into the kitchen.

I suppose it was unreasonable to go and try to kill the eight year old Dave kid. I would just have to settle for calling his school or talking to his parents. Just because I couldn't protect him from the world didn't mean I wasn't going to try.

I just can't wait till his tormentors start getting older so I can start kicking some ass.

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A/N- This was a little bit different than the stories I usually do so be sure to review and let me know what you think. I'm considering doing a story consisting of scenes from little Kurt's childhood next so give me feedback.

Baby Kurt gets sad when people don't review. We don't want that, now do we?


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